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“I propose it’s time to head out to the range for our golf tune-up. Bobby’s waiting to drive you into town so the two of you can pick up your clubs. Meg and I will meet you at the clubhouse.” Jack turns to Doolin. “Join us for a bucket of balls?” He nods to Deidre. “And someuisce na beathaafter?”
Jack plays it cool and careful. He could easily have offered to drive me instead of Meg. Cat and mouse indeed.
Deidre links her arm through Doolin’s. “Thank you, Jack, but Doolin promised to teach me how to make Guinness stew.”
I’ll put money down stew isn’t the only thing the two of them will make tonight.
ChapterTen
Iaim for the Waterville Links logo on the golf ball poised on the well-worn tee matt. A three-quarter swing with my sand wedge should land the shot next to the pole of the fifty-yard marker. Jack’s ball will have no chance of landing any closer, and I’ll be twenty Euros richer.
The overhead lights of the driving range send Jack’s shadow ahead of him as he walks up too close behind me. I can’t swing without hitting him. “If you blow this shot, you’ll only have hit your mark nine times in a row. That’ll mean starting over for you.”
I straighten up and point to the bench where Bobby and Meg sit watching. “Some golf etiquette please, Mr. O’Leary. I’m visualizing my shot.”
His breath is warm against the chilly skin of my neck. “I’m already on seven in a row. Once your next shot goes awry, you’ll never catch me.”
“He hates to lose a bet,” calls Bobby.
“Don’t give into his mind game,” says Meg. Nothing we did could convince her to pick up a golf club. She’s taken on the role of cheering section, fueled by her third whiskey and ginger soda.
Jack smirks as if he’s already managed to screw up my shot. “I’m visualizing you missing this tenth-in-a-row shot so you don’t own our bet.”
“I will make the shot and own you. Get your Euros ready.”
“Ha.” He struts over to Bobby and Meg. Turning to watch, Jack crosses his arms and takes a wide, cocky stance.
I shut him out, address the golf ball, and visualize it clinking against the pole. My swing is smooth, effortless in its arc. The ball rises, falls, and nestles up against the white metal of the fifty-yard flag.
My turn to smirk. “Tat’s ten,” I say, busting out an Irish accent to celebrate my victory.
Bobby applauds while Meg lets loose an impressive, fingers-in-the-mouth whistle, earning them an entire row of dirty looks from golfers poised on tee mats.
Jack retrieves a sand wedge from his bag and nudges me off the mat. “Double or nothing.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Jack,” Meg says and drains her glass. “I’m not sitting out here in the cold to watch you go down again. I’ll be inside.”
Jack glances over his shoulder at them. “Bob, you want in on this?”
Bobby raises hands in surrender. “I’m competitive, but you’re insane.” He pulls Meg to her feet. “We’ll be in the clubhouse while you two obsessives finish your duel.”
As soon as they leave, Jack pulls off his baseball cap and puts it on my head. My fingers itch to braid his hair.
Delicious, warm breath trickles into my ear. “Finally. I’ve got you to myself.”
I glance at the clubhouse. “Mighty big windows up there.”
He pulls me onto the mat until I’m plastered against his back as he takes his stance. “Come on, coach. Wrap those arms around me and guide my club where it needs to go.”
Thank God his back is to me so he can’t see the cranberry color my face has surely become. I do as he says, imagining a very different club from the one in his hand. “You are a sneaky fellow.”
He chuckles. “Isn’t this the most conducive position for chipping?”
“Your chipping is fine.”
“Fix my putting then. Meet up with me after dinner without that pair.” He nods in the direction Bobby and Meg headed.
I pretend to correct his swing, then step away.
